


Three-Quarters Gone

by buckysbears (DrZebra)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: A dangerous combination, Baking, Drinking, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 12:10:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5496590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrZebra/pseuds/buckysbears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobbi tries to make cookies and gets kind of wasted instead. Fitzsimmons clean up the damage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three-Quarters Gone

**Author's Note:**

> From anon's prompt: "Christmas au person A is baking and burning everything and person B walks in"

Bobbi threw back another shot in preparation to open the oven door. It was batch number five of gingerbread men and so far none of them could have been claimed to still be gingerbread by the time she was done with them (she had, quite possibly, created a new state of matter). The remains of the burnt cookies were shoved to the bottom of the trash can, but the smell still wafted heavily under her nose, mocking her.

The oven door opened to the sight of another decimated batch of cookies, deformed figures with boils of powdered mix and blackened limbs. She let the tray clatter on the stovetop.

She wasn’t drunk, per se. Not enough. Not yet.

It was supposed to be a surprise for Fitz and Jemma, who loved sweets with their whole beings and then some. They could decorate the gingerbread men together with the icing and little candies Bobbi bought from the store during her last outing, and they’d all have a lovely Christmas Eve together. They’d all eat the cookies, maybe open presents early or just talk on the couch, and then retire to her room for some personal time.

But here she was, ruining it. She sloshed more whiskey into her glass. Maybe they could just watch a movie or something.

Fitz and Jemma startled her as they ran around the corner and into the kitchen, sleeves held in front of their faces. Fitz looked a little green, underneath his concern. Bobbi cursed herself that she hadn’t heard them coming.

“Bobbi, what’s going on? Are you alright?”

“It smells like…” Fitz waved the hand that wasn’t covering his mouth and nose, “like charcoal and burning flesh.”

Bobbi shrugged. “I can’t make cookies.”

Bobbi was proud of how totally _not drunk_ she sounded, or thought she did at least, but Fitzsimmons glanced at each other with barely concealed worry.

“How much have you had, Bobbi?”

Fair question. Bobbi ticked off her fingers, counting her first, second, and third drinks … and then just let her fingers flick against each other because it looked cool and vaguely wobbly. She’d started drinking after batch two and hadn’t gotten around to stopping.

“Okay, alright, that’s fine.” Jemma was placating her, she could tell by the way her eyes scrunched up at the corners, but found she didn’t mind so much. She just wanted to be near them, and make them happy. She could feel it like a fire in her chest. “Fitz, get her away from the oven, please.”

Fitz darted to her side to grab her arm, dragging her out of the kitchen while Jemma disposed of the last batch, turned on the fan, and started spraying something over the whole area. Bobbi slumped against him in the hallway, and he staggered briefly under her weight before propping them both against the wall.

God, she messed this up. She messed this up so bad.

“Hey, don’t worry about a thing,” Fitz murmured, and Bobbi tucked her head into the crook of his neck, “You didn’t mess anything up, we’ll get you all fixed up and everything will be okay.”

Shit, had that been out loud?

“Yeah,” he chuckled, and she groaned, long and pitifully, into the fabric of his Christmas sweater. He raised his hand to cup the back of her head, pressing a kiss into her hair, the other hand steady on her back.

She heard Jemma walk up next to them, and felt cold fingers press against her wrist. “How about we take a look at that arm, hun.”

“Wha’ happened t’ my arm?” Bobbi muttered, unwilling to move now that she had settled on top of Fitz, warm and drowsy.

“Minor burn.” Jemma was using the same voice she used on the concussed agents, the one Skye had called her kindergarten teacher voice. “I just want to clean it up and maybe rub some salve on it, I promise it won’t hurt a bit.”

“I’m tired.” Honestly she just wanted to go to bed and not face them for a few days, think of something to save face. But tomorrow was Christmas and she’d ruined their Christmas Eve so the least she could do was comply with Jemma, let her do her doctor thing and fix whatever else Bobbi had messed up without noticing.

“I’m sure,” Jemma agreed, slipping her hand in Bobbi’s and beginning to lead them down the hall. “It’ll only take a few minutes and then we can relax. Fitz will be there too.”

“Not goin anywhere,” Fitz assured her when she tightened her grip on the both of them.

Jemma led them to the lab and Bobbi finally glanced up, having kept her face firmly against Fitz’s neck for the journey there. They entered the medical room and Jemma sat her on the bed, shuffling out to grab a few supplies. Fitz sat next to her so she could lean against him again, humming as he ran his fingers through her hair.

“You could’ve asked for help with the biscuits.”

She huffed. “Then it wouldn’t’ve been a surprise.”

She heard the little grin in his voice. “Yeah, it certainly was surprising.”

He laughed as she thumped him, both quieting as Jemma came back into the room, holding a small basket of supplies. She pushed Bobbi’s half sleeve higher onto her bicep and began dabbing at the burn on her forearm with a wet cloth, which was suspiciously long and thin, like the side of the cookie tray. Bobbi hadn’t even noticed leaning against it, but she’d been pretty worked up and, as always, had a high tolerance for pain.

Fitz and Jemma were talking as she worked, but Bobbi let her mind wander, hazily swimming through scenarios for tomorrow. She hoped she wasn’t too hungover. And that they wouldn’t be mad at her. Were they already mad at her?

“Are you mad?” Bobbi managed, watching Jemma’s hands rub cream onto her enflamed skin rather than her expression.

“For what?” On Jemma’s behalf, she sounded honestly confused, hand stilling briefly.

“Ruining Christmas.”

“You haven’t ruined anything, love, don’t think like that.” Her fingers continued their trail up and down Bobbi’s arm, other hand grasping her wrist very gently to hold it up. “It was very sweet to try and make the gingerbread, but next time don’t be afraid to ask for help.”

“That’s what Fitz said,” Bobbi admitted, ducking her head.

Jemma finished up and wiped her hands, nodding sagely. “He can occasionally be correct about matters like this.”

“Hey,” he protested lightly, and Jemma laughed as she slipped the buds of a stethoscope into her ears.

Bobbi hissed as she cold metal slipped under her shirt, pressed against her ribs. “Why,” she whined, trying to shy away. Fitz held her in place as Jemma readjusted the chestpiece.

“You inhaled some smoke and I’m concerned about your lungs,” Jemma explained carefully, eyes round with worry. Bobbi felt her insides crumbling, hit with a fresh wave of guilt, and tried to breathe in deep when prompted. She turned her face into her own shoulder to cough, throat burning, unsure if it was from the smoke or the alcohol that buzzed in her skull.

“My throat,” she explained, waving off the four hands that suddenly were trying to touch her, “It’s fine, just my throat.”

Jemma gave a discontented sigh, but nodded. “Well, despite the small fit your lungs sounded fine, I won’t make you do it again. Come on Fitz, let’s get her to bed.”

It took some maneuvering, but they eventually managed to get her back to her room, into pajamas, and under the covers. She clung to Jemma, face buried in her stomach, as Jemma drew patterns on her shoulder with her fingertip.

“I’m going to be sick on Christmas,” Bobbi complained—like it wasn’t her fault, but rather some cosmic muckup—and felt Fitz jump from his place on the bed next to her with a small “oh!” of excitement. He dashed from the room, the door falling shut behind him.

Jemma chuckled. “Apparently not on Fitz’s watch. He’s been wanting to try his new concoction, looks like you’re the perfect guinea pig. It’s perfectly safe, I assure you, and not completely unscientific. He swears by it, though.”

A few minutes later he burst back into the room, clambering on the bed and hovering over Bobbi on his knees.

Bobbi groaned again, worried in spite of (perhaps because of) Fitz’s delight. “What is it going to do to me?”

“Nothing worse than what you’ve done to yourself.”

He helped her sit up and handed her the glass, filled halfway with a suspicious looking liquid, so brightly colored it was almost glowing. “What’s in it?”

“Erm, well- pickle juice, gatorade powder, honey, just a _dash_ of-“

“Okay, okay, I don’t wanna know anymore.” She knocked the glass back in one gulp, slapping her hand over her mouth so she didn’t spit the contents back out, eyes bulging as she tried to swallow it and keep it down. The liquid burned her mouth and throat on the way down, and she swore it tore out of her esophagus and spilled into her bloodstream.

Well. She certainly felt more sober.

“Oh my god,” she gagged, firmly gripping their arms on either side of her. “Oh my god I’m going into renal failure.”

“If you were it wouldn’t be my fault,” Fitz argued, and Jemma shushed him.

“I’m serious this might be cardiac arrest.”

“You’ll get used to the taste eventually,” Jemma grimaced, eyes distant. She shook her head and handed Bobbi the glass of water by the bed, which she gulped down greedily. It didn’t help enough with the taste, but her lips weren’t buzzing anymore.

Bobbi heaved an exaggerated sigh and flopped back onto the bed, burying her head back into Jemma’s stomach.

“I’m sorry,” she said for what must’ve been the eighth time.

Jemma hunched over to kiss her, effectively silencing her for the moment. As she pulled back up Bobbi grinned a little, turning her head to Fitz. “I’m serious though, I really am.” She waited for Fitz to copy Jemma, and he did not disappoint.

They both scooted down to lay on either side of her, taking turns pressing little kisses to her cheeks, her temples, the side of her neck, her lips. Bobbi’s head spun, completely unrelated to the alcohol, and she conceded that the evening hadn’t been a complete disaster after all. Even if they hadn’t gotten to eat cookies.

**Author's Note:**

> Still taking Fitzsimmorse prompts over at my tumblr buckysbears!


End file.
